Caught in the Devil's Hand
by Ms. Audrey G
Summary: Pirithous aimed to capture a fitting bride. It didn't matter if she belonged to the God of the Underworld. If Pirithous wanted the best, he would acquire the best.


This is an interpretation of what I believed happened with Pirithous. There are some different tales of what happened to him but I used as much as I learned from those tales to write what I think happened. Feedback is appreciated.

* * *

><p><strong>Caught in the Devil's Hand<strong>

Pirithous, son of Dia, husband of Hippodamia, slid down a slope, short on breath. Into the land of the dead, Persephone awaited. He rushed toward the River Styx, eager to have his future bride. Now that Theseus had captured Helen it was time to capture his prize. He could easily envision her red lips tugged between his teeth, her body soaked in sweat, in the throes of ecstasy. How he would marvel at her dark hair under the sunlight, the grass contrasting against her pale skin.

It made her capture a bit more tantalizing with his imaginations.

He followed the deserted path, a valley of land combined of dirt and skulls; cliffs overlooking the land; thistles stuck in between rocks; and a thick fog hovering over the River Styx, with a wooden bridge overseeing the dark, mystified water.

The payment, saved in a small bag, thumped against his thigh; the coins jingled with each step, carrying the sound to his ear as a trumpet of his arrival. He ventured toward the bridge. Somewhere, through the deep fog, the Charon awaited. Ready as he could be, he quickly grabbed for the bag, but Theseus, his long-time friend, held him back, seizing his arm with a strong hand.

"Can we rest, Pirithous? We hardly stopped since our journey. We should gather our strength before we call the Charon," he said.

He was about to protest but his friend was insistent.

"All I ask, my friend, is a moment of rest. Surely, you can wait a bit more."

He let him go and eyed the flat stone a short walk from them, heading toward that direction. Falling onto his rear, he shut his eyes and crossed his arms. Exhausted from the trip, he fell silent. It had been more than fifteen hours since the capture of Helen. A few minutes would do to gather their strength.

Pirithous took a step back, surrounded by the music in the air. The river rushed beneath the wooden bridge, soiling the bottom of his shoes with ice. The dead cry for release, their rotten hands floating above the water surface, only to disappear under the rapid current. A burden to his sight, he looked across the water surface, searching for the Charon in the thick fog.

"Have you ever been in the Underworld?"

Pirithous arched a brow, incredulous of the question given to him. His friend caught on to his stupidity, but allowed the other from commenting sarcastically, "No, have you?"

"How are we going to capture Persephone?"

He crossed the bridge to the mainland, pacing in thought, mindlessly ignoring the skulls he crushed. Nothing but vermin soiled the ground. He laid an eye on a small skull and then crushed it. With every skull crushed, he felt at ease, calmly responding to his silent friend.

"Don't worry yourself about it. I'll figure something out."

Silence between the two, they allowed themselves to bury themselves in their thoughts, each thinking of what they would do to the women back home. It made the wait so much easier to handle when both men would receive their both rewards in high spirits.

"Come and sit," Theseus said. "You should rest a little before we enter the land of the dead."

Reasonable advice. He grew tired of venting his frustration on useless remains anyway. Worst, his impatience come back. If Theseus wasn't an important asset to this mission, he would've hauled him across the River Styx, without complaint. Fortunately, that wasn't the case, and he perfectly agreed that he needed the rest.

Beefy arms folded, Pirithous sat, back pressed against Theseus. The air fell into the lower degrees that any normal person would've complained of the cold, but the two hot-blooded warriors were different and remained impassive.

He heard his friend shift behind him and turned to see his face in euphoria.

"When we return home we should feast and drink until our faces beam."

Pirithous disagreed on such thought. Not that he wouldn't be in a festive mood; he would much rather have pale legs strap around his waist, sampling his bride's skin with nips before any celebration.

He spoke his thoughts aloud, "We should sample what we fought for."

Theseus laughed, his booming laughter echoed and fell into silence minutes later.

"Eager, are you?"

"And you're not?"

"I am a patient man, my friend."

The topic ended at that.

For a moment, all was silent. The dust soiled his shoes and ruined the dark leather. Far above, the sky remained in an orange-reddish hue, time being still. With a glance he stared at the path he had taken to get here; a straight dark lane, with dead trees, its branches sharp as thorns, the very path that led to the living world, where the sun shined and time moved forward. He could not wait to return home, back where he belonged. The valley of death was irksome to behold.

"We wasted enough time," he said.

They should've left a while back. But Pirithous would not deny that the rest was much needed.

He shifted his feet, placed his hands on his knees, and tried to stand, but he discovered that he could not. Theseus spoke in the background, alarmed at the sudden situation. He barely paid attention to him. The fact that his mobility was taken from him angered him. But he held back his anger, saving it for the one who did this to him.

Suddenly the stillness in the air seemed all too absolute; there was a crawling sensation at the base of his neck. He looked up, peeved. The Furies, possessing a woman's figure, graced their presence in high-quality robes, and a sneer across their red lips.

"They fell into our trap."

Megaera—the envious—grabbed his chin forcibly, stared into his brown eyes, and smiled.

"Fools they are," she said, inching closer. The snakes in her hair hissed at him.

"Shall we kill them?" Alecto spoke, eager to dispose of them.

"No, he wants them alive."

They spoke as if they were not there. In their mind, perhaps. Pirithous hated that he was ignored but remained quiet, listening.

"Shall we tell him?" Tisiphone crossed his line of vision.

Megaera turned to the River Styx, contemplating. "We shall wait from informing him."

"He will not forgive us," Alecto spoke.

He could tell she was pleased.

"We shall tell him of what obscenity was said of her," Megaera said.

She slid her hand down his chest and, right below the waistline, felt the dagger strapped to his hip, along with the payment. Distracted by her hideous features, he hardly felt the binds slither up his leg, up his thigh, and coiled around his chest, strapping his arms in. He was utterly in their power.

There was a tremendous shout.

Pirithous moved his head and caught sight of a boulder flying above his head, landing a quarter mile from where he sat. It was a threat, a powerful one to consider. It sent the Furies in a fit of rage as they vanished in the dark tendrils of darkness, their last words hanging in the air, "You'll never escape."

He ignored them.

He felt a presence behind him and turned his head. The great hero, Hercules, had smashed the flat stone into pieces and ripped the binds of Theseus easily. It was a power that made men tremble but he awed at his capability.

Where Hercules came from it matter not. Another time Pirithous will ask.

Hercules pulled Theseus to his feet and then placed his attention on him. But before his large hands reached for his binds, the earth began to shake, knocking Hercules to his knees. He quickly stood up on his legs, reaching for him, but the ground rumbled and tore the land apart, swallowing the demi-god in an instant.

In the darkness, he was surrounded in earth.

The dirt rubbed against his skin, climbed into his clothes, caked his hair in brown, all in an attempt to crush him whole. Claustrophobic, he battled against his restraints, itching to reach the heavens, but he felt the dirt close him in, squeezing the oxygen out of his lungs. Suffocation—he would die of suffocation. He was a demi-god; he deserved to die better than this.

With vigor, he struggled against his binds. The dirt moved against his eyes, nose, and mouth in an unpleasant manner. It became clear to him that his attempts were meaningless. He felt his throat dry; felt his heart hammering quickly in his chest. Panicked, he felt the darkness closing in on him, until he could no longer breathe. In that instant, he dropped and slipped out of the earth, his ankle wrapped in a dark tendril. It tossed him to a side, like a ragged doll with no value, into the brick wall, his back slamming against it.

When he fell to the ground, he coughed and sputtered blood, the foul taste of copper lingered in his mouth. Across from his vision, dark boots stood, illuminated by the torch light. He looked past the dark clothing and into the ageless face of Hades. He struggled to master his fear, but with a smile, Hades gleamed, and his heart dropped.


End file.
